A road between two.

I remember how much I used to think about you. In the town where I was young, a winding road between two swamps. Each time the weight of the vehicle pushed to the right and I asked and received the most delightful visions of you in my head. You smiled at me as you reached for my hand. When our fingers interlocked I would tell you,

"I want to be good,"

You would smile and disappear as quickly as you touched me. Now I am anxious for that memory. Someone has tough callused hands around my ankle. A bag is over my head. Nothing is visible and I am so scared of what is about to happen. Who used to pull on my ankles? A teacher once did that with such love, I assumed she was my wife, if I ever knew what a wife was.

These hands are different, they do not like me, they want to hurt me. Other pairs exist in this room. I understand why they want to do this, it makes sense, it doesn't mean that I do not want to run away. The sock shoved in my mouth is making my jaw ache. Bitter fetid tears are falling from my eyes and my nose can smell the iron of my blood mixing in between the muffled sobs.

Ushered and placed in a chair, leather straps go around my forearm. The hat is pulled from my head and I am staring into eyes that see this everyday. I sputter as they rip the tape and then pull the sock out. No words come out, as I make a face, trying to feign confidence. There was that road. Where was that road? Does anyone know the way to go home? What happens when they do this to us? Crying, I bow my head and I feel the initial pressure of the clamp on my pointer finger. The tear is so shocking, like the north sea on family vacations, feeling like I should smile, instead I say,

"Forgive me, Forgive me, FORgive me, FORgive ME,"

A piece of paper has words written on it. Words were meant to be read, but read aloud? I do what they say, it sounds as foreign as Mandarin but I am speaking my native tongue. How many people are going through the same exact moment right now? How many would try and reach back to the time they were young and they felt the soft skin and all the impending mistakes of being on this world for two decades. Remember the sharkskin paper of books being carried to be a productive member of what? A club? A lie? A reason to hate, no one to say good morning to.

As my head is bowed, like Mishima on the day of his reckoning, except I have no one who loves me. People will never be given the grisly, instead a rehashed story that grown ups tell other grown ups when they can't face their own conscience. Granted no last meal, I cannot see the road between the two swamps and I know why.

We have a choice, even if it isn't between life and death.